The love poem I wrote for a class in college received the approval of both my professor and classmates. During discussion, one of them grilled me on the germ of the verse. I never had a boyfriend then, only a romantic, romanticised view of boys. Moreover, falling in love was all I heard and read about at that time.
In a way I write what I know and don't know.
My recent literary confessions to a colleague (we were early birds at a press conference) prompted her to ask, "Where do you get inspiration?" The question is old but hardly tired. And the answer has been the same since the first ambitious draft: a creative writing environment.
By no means is it a person, place, or event which moves me to production. If anything they are materials of a product. I'm not sure I'd get anything done without being in a community of writers and amongst the company of books. "It's true, we just remix others' works," I cheekily (hopefully) replied.
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